


Apart From The Servants

by Katesthree (Kaythree)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 18:21:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6999400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaythree/pseuds/Katesthree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternative history set a few years before the beginning of the Masked Empire and Inquisition. Evelyn Trevelyan is studying at the University of Orlais, living alone in the Imperial Palace and hiding her magic amidst the ever-watchful gaze of the players of the Great Game. But shadows stalk the Imperial Court, and after a chance encounter throws her at the mercy of  Felassan and Briala, she is drawn into an intrigue of increasingly perilous schemes, and even more perilous company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Briala’s bright, inquisitive gaze fixed upon her, and Evelyn realised with a sinking feeling that she was weighing, measuring, sizing Evelyn’s value. Those big pretty eyes had a steely edge; and Evelyn knew by now that the elven woman’s unassuming posture was nothing but an effective cover for her impressive martial prowess, a cover that was as easily and instantaneously discarded as Felassan’s tattered cloak, hissing on the ground as he circled her. 

Felassan. She could feel hairs prickling up the back of her neck, almost feel his hot breath at the nape. Not for the first time since meeting the duo she felt more than a little afraid, as anxiety pooled in her stomach and stiffened at her limbs. Yet as much as they were want to set her teeth on edge, Evelyn wanted very few things more the two elves’ attention. Briala and Felassan were so very interesting, and despite everything, she felt more alive than she had in years.

Now, she just had to hope they weren’t planning on killing her. 

 

***

_Thirty-six hours earlier..._

 

Night had fallen over the Imperial Palace. Not that the enormous, gaudy Orlesian labyrinth ever truly went dark; lamplight glistened throughout its many hallways and near-innumerable chambers, little golden islands of light illuminating the hushed depths within. The opulence of the Palace’s bowels had the nobility playing constant catch-up with their extravagant surroundings; those still out and about at this late hour belaboured under the weight of their jewelled gowns and extravagantly ruffled collars. For many of Orlais’ finest were still hard at work, murmuring softly amongst one another, as enraptured by intricate steps of the Great Game as they were oblivious to the servants who flitted and scurried among them. Music floated through the cool night air: the last of the Court musicians, struggling to stay alert after a long day. 

But not all corners of the Palace were so preoccupied. The place was large enough to swallow all the nobles in Orlais and still leave space for Briala, elf and spymaster, not to mention lover, of the Empress Celene. The woman paced near-silently through the old stone cloisters running the length of the Palace’s dusy, half-forgotten Eastern section, accompanied by a hooded figure, considerably larger than she, the hem of whose cloak gathered dust as it trailed the cold stone behind him. Felassan – for that was the figure’s name – was speaking softly to Briala; but her wide hazel eyes were elsewhere, fixed on the sky above.

“Bright, for a new moon”.

Felassan looked upwards. His hood slipped back, and moonlight glinted off the sharp points of his ears. 

“Am I tiring you, da’len?”. He looked half-annoyed, half-amused. “Usually, the escapades of the Dalish interest you even more than they bore me”.

Briala flashed him an apologetic glance. “A little preoccupied is all. Celene-“

She stopped short, alerted to the change in her companion. Felassan’s preternaturally excellent hearing had picked up encroaching footsteps, and he had stopped dead, listening. 

Briala strained to hear as Felassan, and shortly she did; two pairs of footsteps, about to round the corner to bring them directly into her line of sight. For her to be sighted here was little matter; she was a regular fixture around the Palace, although as seldom remarked upon as any elven servant generally was. But Felassan: that was a different matter of entirely. He could move inconspicuously enough through the Val Royeaux alienage, but here his height, pace, evident coiled strength marked him as no ordinary scurrying palace servant. And that was before the violet eyes and elabourate markings. She reached for Felassan, but he was already on the move, pulling her backwards behind a particularly ugly statue of a chevalier skewering a wyvern. 

Within a few seconds, the footstep's owners had passed by the pair; peering out from round the chevalier’s elbow, Briala spotted a man and a woman, human, both noble, although the woman’s gown was somewhat more threadbare and free of ornamentation than the norm. 

They were deep in conversation; the man was leaning into the woman, and she could tell by the stiff angle of the woman’s neck that the hot breath on her face – probably flavoured with the foie gras served at tonight’s banquet - was not a welcome sensation. 

“D’you know where we are?”

The woman’s voice, high and hesitant with nerves. The man’s reply was mumbled and throaty. Briala caught a glimpse of his face as they turned out of her sight through an archway; a hard mouth, set in a relaxed line. He was masked, as all Orlesian nobles were, but she recognized him nonetheless, recognized him as she did almost all the nobles at Court. He was Pierre D’Alphonse: the fourth son of a minor Comte, and a major bore. Briala was surprised to see the woman here; her face was mask-less, and although Briala thought she looked vaguely familiar, the name eluded her. Large green eyes, rolling up to the ceiling in boredom – or was that fear?

As Briala considered the pair, they abruptly ceased speaking. There was silence; then the sound of rustling fabric. A catch of breath, a wet, sloppy sound, and a muffled yelp. Briala wasn’t sure – and beside her, Felassan’s expression was inscrutable -

Then the quiet of the cloisters was exploded by a momentous cracking noise, a thwack-sizzle that seemed to shake the very stone. In one motion, Briala drew her daggers, indecision ended, as a staff materialised in Felassan’s hands. Briala felt the soft vibration of Felassan’s protection barrier hum across her skin, and they surged forwards, steel and magic together, towards the spot in which the two humans had gone – 

To find only one human left.

The woman. Arms stretched out in front of her, eyes wide, mouth agape. 

Staring at the gently smoking corpse at her feet. 

Her head whipped up and her gaze met that of the two surprised elves before her. She was young, about a decade younger than Briala. Pale (with shock?) and dark haired. Tallish. 

It was about half a second before she spoke. Two words, hissed somewhere between a prayer and an exclamation: 

“Oh, _shit_.”


	2. Chapter Two

Lady Evelyn Trevelyan stared at the two elves in front of her numbly. Some remote corner of her mind, the only part not preoccupied with processing the _oh sweet Maker you just murdered Pierre_ thoughts, noted that they were staring straight back. 

They were a strange duo: elves, standing with none of the meek subservience that elves always stood before her with, but straight backed and unafraid. Daggers in the hands of the woman – to carry weapons was forbidden in the Palace, especially for a servant, especially for an elf. Livid tattoos curled on the face of the other, like the savage Dalish elves who preyed on unsuspecting human travellers, and in his hand, of all dangerous and forbidden things – a staff. A Dalish elf wielding a magical staff. How is this happening, she thought, dimly. 

There was a slight pause.

The elf man spoke first, long ivory fingers strumming the wood of his staff. 

“Well, this is…novel.” 

Evelyn almost laughed. _That’s one way of putting it_. Then – 

“Briala?” She could not stop her voice from quavering.

It was Briala. The small, nut-brown elf had served tea at Celene’s side when she was formally received as the Empress’ ward in the Imperial Palace several years ago. The Empress had motioned to her handmaiden with a languid wave and breathed something in her delicate pointed ear. She had thought nothing more of Briala, just another meek elven servant in the Imperial Palace. 

Evidently, she had been mistaken. 

She swallowed. That same tea-bearing handmaiden was still fixing her with an impenetrable gaze. When Briala finally spoke, it was to the man beside her – 

“Lady Evelyn Trevelyan. From Ostwick. Here to study at the University; as recognition of service to the Crown rendered by her great-aunt, she was officially taken as a guest of the Empress for the duration of her stay in Orlais. No idea about the magic.” Briala’s breath caught on that last word slightly. “Trevelyan - you have rooms overlooking the Rose Courtyard, third floor?”

Evelyn eyed the duo fearfully. 

Felassan laughed; the sound bounced off the stone walls and echoed through the cloister. 

“That we know where you live is the least of your problems, _my lady_.” 

Was that a threat? The tall, menacing elf stared straight at her, expression unreadable. Yes. Yes, it probably was.

“I haven’t hurt” - she tried to regularise her breathing, to sound in control despite her own panicked emotions, but her words still came in panicked surges between gulps of air – “the only person I have harmed – is this one”. 

“Indeed”, the stranger agreed. “He looks” – he glanced at the charred and blackened heap of a corpse at their feet– “…harmed.”

He bounced the staff between one hand and the other, still fixing her with that same cool stare.

“Which brings us to the most interesting question of the evening: is shocking one’s companions to a crisp a favoured pastime of young noblewomen these days?”. He glanced at Briala, and back to Evelyn, a slight twist to the corner of his mouth. 

She realised with a little jolt to her stomach that he was finding this _funny_.

Evelyn’s fists balled, and in spite of herself, she felt the metallic tang of suppressed magic in her mouth, the familiar vibration of her body struggling to contain suppressed energy. But the veritable lightning storm she had just released on Pierre had exhausted her: at this point, she would be lucky if she could unleash anything more fearsome than a carpet burn. 

Nevertheless, this elf man’s casual insouciance in the face of her intense vulnerability was infuriating. Her anger mixed with the panic still swirling around her bloodstream to combustible effect, and despite – or perhaps because of - everything, a stream of panicked, but irate, expletives spilled from her lips:

“…favourite _fucking_ pastime, imbecile! He was about to _fucking hurt me_ , you smirking piece of-“

Momentarily, the elf looked taken aback.

“Well, consider me – fucking – sorry, my Lady”. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he gave her a sardonic little mock bow. 

Damn him. She stared him down. 

It was no use; his violet eyes bored straight back into hers. Behind the casual insolence, there was something immovable about his eyes’ strange depths, at once neutral, then hostile, and overwhelmingly alien. She sensed the cold complexity of his gaze, its hungry immensity, and felt him as a predator. 

Tearing her gaze from his eyes, she felt the hot itch of tears in her own.

And then the fight left her: she wanted to snarl, then sob, and had to settle for an ugly nasal snuffle in place of either. She sat, almost fell to the floor, landing almost on top of the corpse.  
She scooted backwards hastily, until she felt hard stone at her back. Evelyn numbly wished to rewind time. _This was not happening_. 

Silence, again. 

She traced the gap between the flagstones with her ring finger, felt cool moss in the crack. All this time, all this control, all this effort, to keep her magic secret from everyone who had ever known or knew her – and for her careful artifice to come crashing down like this. 

“So, what are you thinking?” she asked, flatly, when she felt able. “Templars? They’ll make me tranquil for this.”

As soon as she said it, she realised that Templars were not her most pressing concern. No, these two were unlikely to take her to the Templars, unless the tattooed one wished to be tranquilised right alongside her. 

Fear crept down her spine, pooled in her belly: if she was frightened before, she was truly scared now. 

They were far more likely to simply kill her. 

Then, she felt a movement before her, and it was Briala, quick as a cat, kneeling beside her. Her face was mere inches from Evelyn’s, so close that Evelyn could see the twitch of her sharp, pointed nose. 

“I won’t hurt you, Evelyn. At least… not if I have the choice”. 

Evelyn blinked. 

The elf woman smiled, and it was unlike the man’s earlier smile: not exactly warm, but there was some truth to it, some feeling behind her guarded gaze. Her large hazel eyes locked into Evelyn’s.

“If you keep my secrets, Evelyn Trevelyan, I’ll keep yours”. 

Looking back at the other woman, Evelyn felt the knot in her breast loosen, just slightly. Her breath came easier again. 

There was movement behind her; with a slight huff, Briala’s companion too had lowered himself to the ground and sat, legs akimbo and grubby feet bare to the night sky. He crooked his head at Evelyn, considering, and then back at Briala, expression inscrutable. A moment passed between the two elves; Evelyn felt that much was being expressed wordlessly. 

After a pause, the hooded stranger looked down and away. He picked his nails, then yawning, stretched his limbs out like a cat. Looking back to her, he said coolly -  
“This means, _fair lady_ , that you are now in our debt. And will be doubly so, once we dispose of gubbins” - one long, elegant toe nudged the corpse – “here”.

Evelyn looked back at the corpse, shuddered. She could still taste Pierre’s slobber in her mouth; it was disgusting, and tinged with foie gras. 

She wet her lips, trying to think how to best respond. 

She came up with: “that’s fair”. 

The elf man grinned. “Of cour-“

And cutting him off, she added in a rush: “But I would like to know the names of both my debtors”. 

He shrugged, unruffled. “Felassan, for all the good it will do you, little mage”.

For a moment all four bodies were motionless in the stone cloisters: two humans, two elves; two men, two woman. One dead, three resting. Amidst it all, Evelyn found the stillness oddly comforting. 

“There’s a garden up ahead”, Briala offered, breaking the quiet. “With Felassan’s magic we can have the body in the ground within the hour”. She cocked her head at Evelyn. “You could help”. 

Evelyn hardly dared believe it. “That simple?”

Briala fixed her sharp gaze on the other woman again. “Anyone see you leave with him?”. She glanced at the corpse.

velyn thought, hard. It had been a long evening, a stupid evening, attending a tedious and lengthy soiree – Pierre had motioned her to one side, she knew the slimy, self-important piece of _shit_ from the University, and not wanting to appear rude, wanting to please and amuse and abide by Orlesian etiquette, like an _idiot_ – she had complied, and been steered further and further away from the others and into the nearly abandoned cloisters of the Eastern Wing. 

“No-one. Maybe - apart from the servants.”

Felassan exhaled. “Maybe apart from the servants”. He was smiling, but his expression, to Evelyn, had an odd tinge to it. “What is the saying here? If only I had a penny…”. 

Briala shook her head, placing one small hand on Evelyn’s shoulder, a little tentatively. “The servants will not be a problem. In fact, should it come to it, they will testify that Pierre D’Alphonse headed alone to a Val Royeaux brothel in a drunken stupor several hours ago. I doubt anyone besides his own father will care that he is missing, and even then the care will be quartered”. She smiled. “Your attacker was a fourth son, and a fool one at that.”

With that, she sprang up, and offered Evelyn her hand. Evelyn took it, was surprised at the slight woman’s strength; surprised at her own strength returning, as with Briala’s help she heaved herself up off the floor and felt warmth flowing through her body once again. 

To Evelyn’s left, Felassan watched the pair intently. The intricate vallaslin feathering his face crinkled as the elf narrowed his eyes, thinking.


	3. Chapter Three

“You did that mageling a kindness. It would have been simpler to kill her.” 

It was the following morning. The two were moving through the Val Royeaux Alienage, Felassan’s hood pulled up to mask his face, Briala, watchful and quick as always, dressed in the plain clothes of your average city elf. The Alienage was a poor quarter, the city’s poorest, a mass of smeared browns and dirt-caked stone, flimsy new shacks propped up against older foundations. But unlike in the sectors home to human commoners, the elves had leadership and organisation, of a sort: they took a kind of pride in their home even as they despaired in it. The dirt-strewn streets were shaded by well-tended trees cherished with paper lanterns and simple painted motifs, and none more so than the enormous, old vhenadahl cherished by the elders, looming over the very heart of the Alienage.

Felassan peered down from under his hood at his companion. Briala’s reply, when it came, was measured. 

“Perhaps”, said the spymaster. “But killing her would have been a missed opportunity. I have precious few humans amongst my informants, and none among the nobility. And her magic could be …useful.” 

She was working as they spoke; pressing a coin or two into the hands of an informant as she passed, eyes darting around the street, as always assessing, appraising, spying. 

“From what you say”, he countered, “She’s barely nobility, coming from that Northern city”.

“Ostwick”, Briala corrected. 

“Details, details”. He was chewing on something – a leaf he’d plucked from a passing bush. Briala wondered if all the Dalish did that – or whether it was another of the many specific peculiarities of her mentor.   
“You know the pomposity of these people better than I do, da’len.” He leaned in closer, looking intently at her. “She knows far too much about you already. Although I do concede that her ability to hide her magic for this long is… _somewhat interesting_.”

Briala ignored his sceptical tone. 

“I made inquiries amongst my people”, she said. “They know her as an unusually courteous oddity; a Free Marcher who spends most of her time in study, holed up in her rooms or at the University. She is absent-minded and kind to servants. She also has very few friends here, and no-one she can trust.” 

Felassan raised an eyebrow. “You think she would trust us?”

“As likely as not, revered teacher.” 

“Why?” 

Briala squinted up at the hot sun, risen to its midday peak. The heat made the garbage in the streets stink more. Even the poorest human quarters of the city had rudimentary gutters, but here, waste was piled onto designated corners until one of the elders could convince a city functionary to allow them to dump it in the river. That river, like the alienage, had seen better days. 

She thought back to Evelyn’s face as she had heaved her off the stone floor: wary, hopeful… appealing? 

“Because she is lonely.”

Felassan chewed on his leaf, considering. “While it would not be unheard of for a noblewoman to find solace in the company of elves” – he paused, picking his words with more delicacy than usual – “that companionship is not usually of an…equal nature”. 

Briala looked back to her teacher, a little too quickly: that remark was not merely referring to Evelyn. A different image swam into her mind’s eye: Celene, beautiful in the early morning light, a stray wisp of blonde clinging to one corner of her perfect mouth.   
A baby was crying in one of the shacks to their right; the thin wails occupied the brief quiet between the two elves. 

“Evelyn’s companionship is not an equal one”, she retorted. “We know of her magic. We know where she lives. We could slit her throat or out her to Templars quicker than she could flee Val Royeaux. She knows that we know this.” 

She quickened her pace, indicating that she considered the topic closed.

The Alienage was a busy place, and it was easy for even one as deft as Felassan to lose a companion in the crowd. He dodged two carts, avoided the clutches of a trio of beggar children seeking alms, and hopped over a steaming pile of dog shite, drawing level with Briala again.

“Of course”, he said, suddenly cheerful. “We should pay her a visit soon, then. Plans in motion and all that.” He paused. 

“Da’len?” he said. 

“Yes?” came the reply. 

“A word of caution: you may find that our Lady chafes at her binds before too long, and if that happens, you will have to act decisively”. 

She gave him a crisp nod in answer. It struck Briala that despite his youthful appearance, her companion looked for a moment very old indeed. He was still chewing absent mindedly on that leaf, thoughts having clearly drifted elsewhere.   
Overhead, ravens wheeled, cawing into the midday sun. Briala watched the looping black shapes of the flock. She nudged Felassan, flashing her mentor with a faint, but quite genuine, little half-smile. Let the birds fly: she, the Empress’ spymaster, and along with Felassan, quite probably the best hope for elves in all Orlais, had work to do far below them.

The two had reached the Alienage entrance. The mass of Val Royeaux lay beyond. Felassan adjusted his hood, returning her smile with one of his own. With that, they stepped forwards into Val Royeaux proper, two elves weaving a path through the heaving masses of the human city. 

***

_The Palace, several hours later_

Evelyn Trevelyan paced. 

Her rooms were not truly big enough for pacing, of course. When one is just an unimportant Free Marcher in the Imperial Palace, you get last dibs on room allocations, and consequently her suite was both smaller and considerably lighter on the gold gilt and fiddly paper ceiling roses than that of the Marquis’ daughter next door, or the scholar of Rivaini antiquities across the courtyard. This was fine: unlike Great-Aunt Lucille, Evelyn had always disliked the twiddlier aspects of Orlesian interior décor. 

She paced from the chaise lounge, to the fireplace, and back again, struggling to process the last night’s events. She had thrown the windows open; the cool breeze filtered through her rooms, and streams of afternoon sunlight fell on the paraphernalia of her life at the Imperial Palace: jumbles of haphazardly stacked scholarly tomes, heaps of her too-plain, unfashionable gowns, and a steaming pot of tea some servant had delivered several minutes prior.

They had buried the body before dawn, her new acquaintances and her. She couldn’t stop thinking about them. Briala: pretty, unassuming Briala. Handmaiden by day, Maker knows what by night. And then there was Felassan: the unusually large and elfy looking elf, whose general countenance seemed stuck on a perpetual pendulum swing between menacing and clownish. Well, (Evelyn ran her fingers through her hair, distractedly): mostly just menacing.

Yet. The effortless way he has wielded magic last night, parting the soil so deeply and thoroughly with a simple gesture of the hand, was spellbinding – an inappropriate choice of word, perhaps, because she wasn’t sure that Felassan really used spells the way she thought all mages were supposed to. Rather than forcibly directing magic with an elaborate invocation, Felassan simply was magic; it moved through and around him as a subtle, mysterious tide, its ebb and flow at once so dangerous and intoxicating that Evelyn had had to restrain herself from gawping. 

She had pitched in with her magic, too; had actually used the force of her will to roll the Pierre’s body into its newly formed grave. That she had misjudged her own strength and nearly sent the body catapulting into Briala was unfortunate, but one split-second course correction later and she was rewarded with a satisfying, muffled kerplunk as Pierre’s mortal remains made their final acquaintance with the earth below. She so rarely allowed herself to use her magic, so afraid and so painfully aware of being careful and controlled lest someone see, that it was beyond exhilarating to use it openly and in freely: to let someone else see her magic, see her using it, see her. Felassan had been watching her closely as she did so (Briala too, although she mainly just looked faintly unnerved at the magic); with a shiver, she remembered how she felt when his eyes bored into hers. 

After the body was buried, Briala had told her that she expected nothing Evelyn couldn’t provide in return; information, gossip, a few minor tasks now and again. 

Which all sounded fine, only it couldn’t possibly be that easy. And as Evelyn made her fiftieth circuit of the room, her mind raced. 

She thought that she should be feeling guilty about the death she had caused (she did not). 

She thought that she should be more fearful, for the unknown future that Pierre d’Alphonse’s untimely end had wrought (she was certainly afraid, but then, wasn’t she always afraid, of her own magic and Templars and the omnipresent threat of an apostate’s fate?). 

Most of all, she knew that she definitely shouldn’t feel the way she did about her new acquaintances - captors? Friends? Co-conspirators? – but in what scheme, exactly? But nevertheless, there is was: the spring to her step as she rounded her fifty-first circuit, the hum at her lips as she walked. 

For some bizarre, Maker-damned reason, she was pleased – she was happy – that whatever else her future contained, it was tied to Briala and Felassan.


	4. Chapter Four

Nobles who spent considerable time at Court often liked to boast that they knew with the Imperial Palace: its half-forgotten side chambers, disused shortcuts, secret passageways. _Mais bien sûr, the Palace holds no mystery for one such as I_ , the Marquess de La Trieste would say, accepting another absinthe proffered by a liveried serving boy with a titter and a wink, as the newer and greener of the nobility fussed excitedly around her. 

Briala knew better. 

While the Imperial Palace was too vast to be ever truly knowable, Briala knew it better than most, knew it only as a servant could: the result of living with problems like, how to ferry candied ice between the nearest set of kitchens and Celene’s bedchamber before it melted; how to avoid that phalanx of drunk chevaliers on the lookout for stray serving girls to harass; the best location to slit someone’s throat and shrink back into the shadows unseen.  
The last one had maybe not so much to do with being a servant. 

This knowledge meant that she slipped into the back entrance to Evelyn Trevelyan’s rooms the day after her trip to the Alienage with ease. Felassan was with her: he would not be returning to the Dalish until their schemes were complete, and they had skirted the Palace’s servants quarters, carefully, to avoid his detection.

The small apartment was very quiet. The pair moved through the sitting-room, taking note of the general clutter: old books, spilled ink, frilly scattered pillows. Piles of dresses were deposited around the place, as if they had been put on then instantly discarded. Felassan fingered a tome lying on the desk entitled _Ritual Culture of the Primitve Elfs: Arlathan, Explained!_.

Where _was_ Trevelyan? 

 

***

Evelyn Trevelyan was at a tea party, and her fruit tart was on fire. 

She had tried to hide it. While Great-Aunt Lucille poured tea, she had tried to strategically position her hand over the smouldering dessert; when that had failed, she had attempted to douse it by surreptitiously conjuring water, but that had only made the flame burn brighter. 

Aunt Lucille was lecturing her about the newest fashions in Orlais, ruffles wobbling in time with her enthusiasm, oblivious to the small strawberry-scented inferno on the table in front of her. 

Evelyn was sweating profusely. _Any moment now, she would see and summon Templars_. 

But then Lucille was no longer Lucille: as Evelyn watched, her creased skin smoothened, her eyes narrowed and pointed, and bright red tattoos fanned across her cheeks. Felassan smiled at her, a slow, predatory grin, leant forward, and suddenly the table itself was on fire-

“Evelyn?”

She woke with a start. 

“Briala?”  
Oh, _no_  
.  
She sat bolt upright, to be greeted by the sight of the Empress’ handmaiden, neat and prim in her servant’s gown, tapping her foot at the end of her bed. Maker: she knew nothing good ever came of sleeping in this late. Thank the Maker she was wearing the unstained bedshirt. 

The elf woman raised an eyebrow. 

“It’s past midday.” 

“Um… yeah. I… d’you mind turning around while I put on a dressing gown?” (where the fuck _was_ her dressing gown?)

Briala shrugged. Evelyn realised with a cold flash of pure mortification that Felassan was behind her. Shit. She could feel her cheeks blotching red, as her arms instinctively went up to cover herself. The elf man, unperturbed, casually plucked her dressing gown from off the floor at his feet and tossed it to Evelyn; she shoved her arms into its sleeves, almost leapt out of be, and tried (failed) to run her fingers through her tangled hair. 

Felassan gave her that familiar appraising look, then spun on his heel, summoning her with casual click of his fingers.

“To business in the next room, Oh dishevelled one”. 

Evelyn followed, helplessly. She glanced at Briala: the handmaiden looked impassively back. Walking into her little sitting room, the felt that same chill of fear creeping down her spine, and the same thrill of excitement, too. This was certainly better than another boring day trying to memorise Old Tevene irregular verbs: but by the Maker she wished she had some proper clothes on. She tried to gather her thoughts, still slow and scattered after her dream. 

The two joined Felassan in the sitting room. Evelyn cast around for something to say. When nothing came to mind, she offered them some tea. They both looked slightly surprised she offered, and declined. 

_Er_ , thought Evelyn. Then:

“Perhaps you would like to tell me why you’re here”. She folded her arms across her chest. 

Briala motioned for Evelyn to sit, and the two sat stiffly facing one another on the chaise lounge, legs stiff and knees almost touching. 

“There is something you can do for me, Evelyn”, the elf began.

That was expected – and rather exciting nonetheless. _Calm, Trevelyan_. 

She made a non-committal _mmh?_ noise. 

“You know Toad? Briala enquired. 

Yes, she knew Baron Toad, actual name Crassaud, so called for his fat waddle, prominent, wide set eyes, and obsequious way with the great names at Court. Awkwardly enough, he was known as a close associate of the Comte D’Alphonse, the late Pierre’s – her late victim’s - father. 

“…mm-mmh?”

“The Baron has a large collection of arcane artefacts, of which we wish to learn more”. 

Now this was curious. From what she knew (from, admittedly, the little she knew) of Briala, the woman seemed of a practical bent. She could feel no magic on her. Felassan, on the other hand…who out of the pair was likely to be really interested in magical artefacts: the deadly handmaiden or the mysteriously marked Elven mage, whose magic Evelyn could feel rolling off of him in subtle, magnetic, waves?

Yes. Despite his studied indifference, she guessed that Felassan was listening intently to their conversation. These artefacts – or perhaps one particular artefact – were probably of some importance to him. 

“You want me to question the Baron about them?”

“And”, said Briala, “You will get him to show you his collection, so that you may ascertain the existence of one item in particular.”

Felassan started to cross the floor from where had been previously perched on the windowsill towards Evelyn. 

She decided it was time to test the waters a little.

“…and what if he won’t show me?”. 

Briala’s bright, inquisitive gaze fixed upon her, and Evelyn realised with a sinking feeling that she too was weighing, measuring, sizing Evelyn’s value. Those big pretty eyes had a steely edge; and Evelyn knew by now that the elven woman’s unassuming posture was nothing but an effective cover for her impressive martial prowess, a cover that was as easily and instantaneously discarded as Felassan’s tattered cloak, hissing on the ground as he circled her.  
Felassan. She could feel hairs prickling up the back of her neck, almost feel his hot breath at the nape. Not for the first time since meeting the duo she felt more than a little afraid, as anxiety pooled in her stomach and stiffened at her limbs. Yet as much as they were want to set her teeth on edge, Evelyn wanted very few things more the two elves’ attention. Briala and Felassan were so very interesting, and despite everything, she felt more alive than she had in years.

Now, she just had to hope they weren’t planning on killing her. 

There was an awkward pause.

“…he’ll show me”, she said, with several degrees of confidence greater than she felt. 

Briala studied her. “It won’t be difficult”, she said, almost kindly. “The man will talk the ear off anyone who will listen about his collection. You’re young and pretty: I trust you have played the role of the naïf many times already, as a foreign girl in the Imperial Court.” 

This, thought Evelyn, was correct. Damn, Briala was canny. 

Felassan leaned back against the windowsill, arms folded, one foot crossed jauntily over the other. “I felt your magic when we last me”. He raised his eyebrows at her. “Not the strongest, but it’s there, all pent up, snapping at your skin beneath the surface. The fizz of it makes my teeth feel funny”.

 _I can feel your magic, too_. Evelyn wanted to say. _I feel its tides lapping at me now, I feel it like a caress on my skin, and beyond that, elf, I feel the cold dark expanse of its power and know that it could drown me_.

He ran his eyes up and down her, laughed. “What the shemlen do to their mages…”

“They haven’t done anything to me”, she pointed out, somewhat proudly. The Templars had never found her, her, a noble, living in the very heart of the city where their order was based. 

He laughed, again. “Shemlem means human, girl. Although your anti-magic knights are so very shemlem, ‘tis true.” 

Was he trying to rile her? If that was a barb, it held no sting. _Try harder, powerful one_. 

“Perhaps”, she said. 

“So”, continued Felassan, “use this magic of yours to sift through all the rubbish Toad will have no doubt accumulated. I don’t care about his special Rivaini talismans, over powered potions, enchanted tiaras. You will find me an orb, about the size of a man’s head.” He looked nonchalant – too nonchalant, Evelyn thought. “Once, it could shake worlds; here, it is the broken plaything of a bored nobleman.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Its energy will feel strange to one such as you”.

She made a curt nod, bristling _at one such as you_. 

“What do you want it for?”

Felassan eyed her, lazily. “Nothing much”, came the airy reply. 

Evelyn leant forward on her elbows. “Colour me curious”. 

He snorted. “Colour _me_ uninterested.”

Fine, be like that. She stood. “Will that be all?”, she asked, icily. She wanted their confidence, but she was nobody’s doormat – or at least, she didn’t want to be.

“For now”. Briala stood too, facing Evelyn. She really was tiny, Evelyn thought, even for an elf: standing looking up at her, the top of Briala’s head barely reached her shoulder. Briala looked up at her, placed one small, elegant hand on her arm and rested it there for the briefest moment. “Speak to him at the ball tonight. Gush a little. Toad’s ego will do the rest.”

She paused, pursing her lips. 

“This is a simple task. But if you run into trouble, look for any elf with a red stitch in their collar, and tell them that the water is sulphuric.”

Evelyn nodded, feigning detachment. 

But in reality, her heart was thumping at what this little piece of information implied: the existence of a network of spies – elf spies – at Briala’s beck and call, nestled in the heart of the Imperial Palace – at the heart of Orlais itself. Did Celene know? Where they working for the Empress – Maker, against the Empress? – or for some other ends entirely? 

They were frightening. And beyond intriguing. (Even if they did have questionable taste in passcodes). 

And then, in a triumphant flash of comprehension, Evelyn realised something important. 

“I am the only human among your informants.” She raised an eyebrow at Briala. Go on, say otherwise.

“No”, came the even reply. 

_Aha_. So she wasn’t even denying it: as Evelyn suspected, Briala was a spymaster. She pressed home her advantage.

“But I am your only noble. And your only mage”. And how thrilling it was to be able to openly describe herself as one.

The pair were already turning and heading towards the servants entrance from which they had presumably arrived; the meeting clearly, was over. 

Felassan swiped something off her desk as he passed it. 

“I’m confiscating this.”

He flourished _Arlathan, Explained!_ at her, stowing it away within the folds of his cloak. Evelyn gawked at him. So that ridiculous garment of his had pockets - and this week’s reading material was now being cheerfully carried off in one. 

“You’re paying the library fine!” she threw after him. 

“Actually”, replied Felassan, just before the door swung shut behind him, “if this one is as bad as I think it is, your library should be paying me.”

And then they were gone, and she was alone again, listening to the juddering beat of her heart. She thought of Felassan tossing her gown to her, his strange intonation when he called her shemlen, the mysterious orb he coveted; and she thought of Briala, by turns calculating, ruthless, and kind, and remembered the way the elf woman’s lips had moved when she called her pretty. 

The only movement in her room for a long time were the soft shiver of curtains tugged by the early afternoon breeze. Then, all at once, Evelyn Trevelyan snapped out of it. She had one afternoon to prepare for her encounter with the Baron, and she was damned if she wasn’t going to make that time count.

Time, she thought grimly, to get dressed, trap a toad, and see what else the coming evening brings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was approximately the first quarter of a much larger work... more chapters to come soon! I have the entire plot sketched out and a lot of the material to come already written, and I can't seem to stop myself from writing more, lol - so expect updates relatively soon. 
> 
> This is my first fic so I'd love feedback.
> 
> Peace out :)


End file.
